


Whoredom in Egypt (Ezekiel 23:3)

by ancientreader



Category: Christian Bible (Old Testament), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Also John has a filthy mouth on him, BDSM, Bible porn yo, Established Relationship, M/M, No actual noncon/dubcon or underage, Sub Sherlock Holmes, Top John Watson, but fantasy involving same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 01:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5648989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancientreader/pseuds/ancientreader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock did some Bible reading at an impressionable age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whoredom in Egypt (Ezekiel 23:3)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chryse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryse/gifts).



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> Ezekiel 23:3 in the King James translation: "And they committed whoredoms in Egypt; they committed whoredoms in their youth: there were their breasts pressed, and there they bruised the teats of their virginity."
> 
> This tarty little fic is a present for [Chryse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryse/pseuds/Chryse), whose writing is -- well, you've probably read her already, so you know to insert a bunch of laudatory adjectives at this point. She's also pretty swell in the friendship department, which you might have guessed from the sheer humaneness of her fics. 
> 
> Chryse, I hope you enjoy this foray into How Young Persons Looking for Wank Material Can Find It Easily Pretty Much Anywhere and Then Have More Fun with It as Adults! There were many reasons to make this a present for you, not least of which is the obvious debt it owes to "What Did You Think About?"
> 
> To [TSylvestris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TSylvestris/pseuds/TSylvestris), beta of astonishing swiftness and perception, as always: all thanks, as always.

“This one, really?”

Sherlock affects nonchalance: “Of course, if the image doesn’t appeal —”

“Oh, it appeals, all right. Just, most people probably go for the Song of Solomon. ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth,’ and that.”

This earns John a sharp look. “You _memorized_ it.”

John folds his arms. “What if I did? Not a lot of outlets available when I was a kid. Anyway, tell me you don’t think it’s sexy.”

“Search the Song of Solomon as long as you like, and you’ll fail to find any mention of prostitution.”

“Or bruising.”

“As you say.”

John reads the verse aloud again. “Phew. Suppose it’s all meant to be a metaphor for — what was Ezekiel generally on about? Idolatry, I guess.”

“Or he was a cranky old man who liked to rant. Sex rants supply an excellent pretext for dirty thoughts and dirty words. In any case, it was the literal sense that drew my attention.” 

Sherlock is sat close to John on the sofa, so John notices it when he fidgets. “Oh my God,” John says, “you’ve got yourself started just thinking about it.”

“It was an early fantasy,” Sherlock replies, primly, “and consequently potent.”

“Potent, yeah.” John slips a hand under Sherlock’s T-shirt and rubs his palm over Sherlock’s pectoral, as if smoothing wrinkled fabric. The nipple stiffens; John rubs a little harder, feeling the nipple bend this way and that. Sherlock bites his lip and pushes his chest forward into John’s hand. 

“So how did you imagine it — yourself as a girl?”

“No, not as a girl. But as — effeminate and — _oh_ ” (this in response to the scrape of John’s fingernail) “— adorned.” 

“ _Adorned._ High end of the market, then.” John withdraws from Sherlock’s breast to ruck up the T-shirt with both hands. “Hold that.” 

The rose bloom begins to spread down Sherlock’s neck. To present himself for handling always has this pleasing effect, as embarrassment and compliance and heat braid themselves together. John experiences his own response to the sight as a sort of edge or itch in his groin. “Of course, John.” Sherlock is speaking with effort. “And you know how I like — ah — verisimilitude in my experiments.”

John continues to rub at the bared nipples while this last passes through the Sherlock Translator. “Oho. You bought the adornments, didn’t you. And I’ll bet you’ve still got them.” The tip of his tongue emerges, without his asking it, to touch his upper lip. Sherlock smiles, coy, self-satisfied. 

That’s enough of that; John cuts out the marveling and sets his voice soft and mild. “I don’t think you’re in anything like the right frame of mind, are you? For a posh piece of merchandise.” 

Sherlock feels these sentences in his prick and balls as much as he hears them; this of all John’s tones is the one that makes him want to sink to his knees and link his hands behind his neck. He bites his lip and drops his gaze.

“That’s more like it. Now let’s move this to the bedroom and have a look at your _adornments._ And I hope you know better than to pull down that shirt.”

Sherlock’s walk, John is pleased to see, is made awkward by his half-hard state. The fabric of his pajama bottoms will be stroking him with every movement of his legs; probably a damp spot has already seeped through. What skills might John’s pretty young whore bring to the occasion? 

_Not_ a helpful line of inquiry, if he wants to walk to the bedroom comfortably himself. John turns to more calming thoughts: Penguins. Anderson. Freezing rain and broken umbrellas.

Erection thus brought to bay, he follows Sherlock and finds him — wet pajama front, check — holding a box from Fratelli Rossetti; John had seen it in his closet and assumed it contained only yet another pair of his preposterously beautiful Italian shoes. “Sneaky,” he says, settling on the end of the bed.

“No ... ” Sherlock’s blush deepens. “I wasn’t entirely sure how you’d receive it.”

“Time to find out, then. Strip and get on your knees in front of me. Then take out whatever’s in that box and let me see how you wore it.”

Oh _yes._ A soft “Ah” from Sherlock, scarlet down to his nipples now. His cock is full. “I haven’t even touched you,” John remarks, with relish.

Evidently Sherlock isn’t _quite_ in the subby spirit yet: “Well, you were playing with — ”

As if speaking of generalities, John interrupts: “It’s a whore’s job to satisfy his client, isn’t it? Not the other way round.” Sherlock hears the threat, of course, and subsides; gaze demurely lowered, biting his lip, casting quick glances at John, he pulls his T-shirt the rest of the way off and then hesitates, head down, with his hands on the waist of his pajamas.

 _Hmm._ Sherlock isn’t usually slow to get naked and he has a glorious “Dare you,” paradoxically shameless, enjoyment of humiliation. This game was already interesting; with that moment’s hesitation it’s taken a turn toward something new, though, something John could get drunk on. He snaps his fingers, like an obnoxious patron summoning the waiter. The pajamas go. Sherlock sinks to the floor. Usually he would rest his hands on his thighs at this point, and his gaze would meet John’s, bright with challenge. Tonight, instead, he covers his crotch and turns his head away. 

“You’re about to be sold to the highest bidder,” John says, testing. The intake of breath he hears tells him he’s on the right track. “Better get used to your owner looking” — he slaps Sherlock’s hands away from his crotch — “and touching.” He gives a sharp tug to Sherlock’s prick. “Your hands are for one thing, and that’s doing what I tell you.”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock breathes, and holy motherfucking Christ he sounds young, he sounds the way he must have sounded before his voice broke all the way, and it’s so hot-wrong that John feels dizzy. “Sherlock,” he says, uncertain. Sherlock’s gaze snaps to his. “Yes,” Sherlock says, “exactly this. John, if you don’t — ”

“No,” John says, “no, it’s good, I just had to — make sure.”

“Be sure.” Sherlock smiles into John’s eyes: sweet, fleeting, conspiratorial. Then he looks down, modest again. _Virgin boy._

John seizes the hair at Sherlock’s nape and steers the virgin boy’s mouth to his. Slight, lissome, trembling with arousal and fear. For sale to the highest bidder.

_Cocaine._

_Gunfire._

John delivers an ugly kiss, a rapist’s kiss, all shove and slobber. He lets Sherlock’s lips catch and bruise on his teeth, holds Sherlock’s head still between hand at nape and hand on throat. Sherlock’s hands flail at the air: _I want to get away,_ they signal, _but I don’t dare struggle._ John breaks the kiss. They are both panting; Sherlock’s eyes are closed, the lashes wet. “Let’s see what I’m dressing the merchandise in,” John says.

Again in that small voice, but breathless now: “Yes, sir.” 

In the shoebox, a dark blue velvet cloth, a dark blue velvet bag. Sherlock lays the cloth out neatly on the floor beside him and tips out the bag. He separates the contents into two items, which he untangles before holding up the first to John. His hands, John sees, are actually shaking, so thoroughly has Sherlock thought himself into his role. 

A fine gold chain connects two clips, at first glance delicate. And the clips —

“These go on my — my nipples, sir. You may adjust the pressure they supply. And — and you can see the bells. The — the maker told me their ringing would please my owner when he, when he fucked me, sir.”

It’s almost ridiculous, Sherlock who is nearly forty playing at “shy adolescent boy”; would be ridiculous, if not for the thread of memory on which it clearly depends. John well remembers himself, reading "A bundle of myrrh is my well-beloved unto me; he shall lie all night betwixt my breasts," and how the imagery left him giddy with want, how the phrase "betwixt my breasts" set fever running in his bones. Sherlock must have conjured worlds of desire from that one line of Ezekiel, and the Fratelli Rossetti shoebox holds not only “adornments” but also the longings of John’s beloved. “I am a ridiculous man,” Sherlock had once told a roomful of people, and that time too he was being brave. John takes the clamps from him.

They’re not nearly as delicate as they look. Or, rather, they’re delicately made but wicked, with narrow tips to concentrate the force as they’re screwed tight. “Your buyer,” John suggests, “will want to hear more than just bells ringing, boy. Let’s see what kind of noises you make when your tits are good and sore.” He rolls Sherlock’s nipples between thumb and forefinger, firmly, one then the other, one then the other, over and over until both are hard and tender, and Sherlock’s lips are parting and closing helplessly over just-voiced puffs of air. When he sets the first clamp, Sherlock cries out and tries to shove his hands away.

John slaps his face. “Don’t you _dare_.” 

Sherlock’s eyes are wide. “ _Please,_ sir. Please, they hurt so badly.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it. So keep your hands out of the way.”

He sets the second clamp; Sherlock whimpers and flinches so convincingly that John has to remind himself they keep a set of alligator clips in the box under Sherlock’s side of the bed. He gives the chain a sharp tug, just to make sure, and is rewarded by seeing Sherlock’s already very hard cock twitch and seep; when he takes up some precome on his fingertip and rubs it along Sherlock’s lower lip, Sherlock suckles at the finger, compliant. 

John has a moment of feeling entirely stunned by his own idiocy. “Oh, my God,” he says, “it was this fantasy, wasn’t it? This is why you like your nipples hurt.”

Sherlock draws back; a few seconds of blinking pass before he manages to pull himself together well enough to reply. “Well,” he says eventually, “I wouldn’t say that the verse installed the predilection, more that it supplied a focus. But in a general way you’re not wrong.”

John kisses him — a kiss just as himself, as John, not as a faux-biblical faux-Egyptian peddler of flesh: a kiss for Sherlock’s pedantry, a kiss for the formality of Sherlock’s language, a kiss for the sake of the reminder that they are first and always in this, in everything, together. It then registers on him that his own prick has been urgently in need of air time for several minutes. He undoes his fly and hooks his thumbs into the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, pulls Sherlock’s head into his crotch. “Can you take a hint, pretty thing?” 

Sherlock opens his mouth as wide as it will go and laps at John’s balls. _Virgin boy._ Arousal catapults at the thought. “Lick the head.” 

Sherlock’s tongue is clumsy, wet, frantic, inept. John is back in the elaborated verse from Ezekiel just that fast. “And don’t think you’re getting away with sucking me off so I can’t fuck you, either. I’ll leave you plenty tight enough for a buyer. You’ll be a virgin twice, hm? Nobody needs to know I heard you squealing first.”

Sherlock mewls pitifully but keeps licking till John, closer to coming than is quite wise if he really means to carry this scene to its logical finish, hauls him off. Christ. Sherlock’s lips are puffy from biting them, earlier; tears have run down his cheeks; he whimpers on every breath. His cock stands like the arm of a metronome. What the hell was John meaning to do next? Oh, yes: _adornment_. “What’s that other accessory of yours? Give it here.”

“That other accessory” is also a chain: with it in hand, John sees it’s the same design as the chain between the nipple clamps, but heavier weight. It’s of a length to encircle Sherlock’s hips. And ... _Oh._ This isn’t off the rack, is it? Sherlock had it _custom made._ A dozen and a half tiny gold bells depend from the chain, and each bell is surrounded by gold fringe. It’s as far from Sherlock’s usual exquisite taste as a pair of velour track pants. It’s ... God, it’s _tacky._ The combination of gold clamps and gold chain and tinkling bells and gold belt and more tinkling bells just about screams “Tarty bellydancer fantasy.” It screams “Debase me.” _Hell yeah._ Smelling salts might be in order.

John gets up and pulls Sherlock to his feet to fasten the chain around his hips, then traces the line of cool metal along his beautiful shivery skin. “Hush,” he says to Sherlock’s small disjointed noises, and covers Sherlock’s mouth for good measure. “Shake your hips, boy.” Sherlock trembles all over and makes muffled sounds. He’s as hard as John has ever seen him. The bells jingle softly, pleasantly. 

Sherlock is utterly undone, and John hasn’t even got him ready for fucking yet. This is _wonderful_. He gives the nipple chain a tug — _jingle jingle_ — and Sherlock gasps. “I’m going to pull these off when I come,” John promises. “Find out what kind of noise you make then, hm?” He scrapes his fingernails over Sherlock’s nipples again and gives another tug — sharper, this time. The clamps are of excellent workmanship and John has set them tight: they stay put. Sherlock whines, protesting. Tears run from the corners of his eyes. John kisses them away. “You’ll fetch a pretty price,” he whispers in Sherlock’s ear. “Lucky, lucky buyer who gets to make you shout and beg for him. I’d envy him, but I’m much too busy enjoying you right now.” He falls into something like a trance then, running his hands all over Sherlock, pulling at his cock, squeezing his arse and pinching his balls, slapping his thighs apart and reaching between them to rub his perineum. It becomes clear at some point that Sherlock can hardly stand up another moment, so John more or less pours him onto the bed, and drunk on sensation remembers that what started this all was _bruised virgin teats_ — _teats,_ what a word, but all at once John hears how dirty it is, a word that now signifies _breasts of an animal,_ a word that became _tits,_ and if he thought he was dying of arousal before, then he was wrong: he’s on a whole new plane now. “I haven’t bruised these yet, have I,” he breathes, “your _teats,_ you’re nothing but livestock, are you, just a little fuckable animal on two legs,” and Sherlock cries out over and over as John twists the clamps, rocks the clamps, the pretty little bells singing their song of _whore whore whore,_ scrapes his fingernails over the abraded skin, “Oh please, sir, please, it hurts so terribly,” Sherlock begs: his voice his own, his voice the voice of the _frightened virgin,_ and John loves him so much for saying “It hurts terribly,” polite and well spoken and refined and “You’re fucking well _mine,_ ” he says; where the hell is the lube —

He finds it under the pillows on Sherlock’s side of the bed — the bastard never seems to remember to put it back in the bedside drawer. “One of these days, soon, you’ll be squealing for it.” He shoves Sherlock’s legs up — “Hands behind your knees and keep them there” — and rubs the slicked flat of his thumb over Sherlock’s anus. Sherlock lets out a half-voiced wail. “You’ll be getting yourself ready for your master like the little slut you are. Shoving your fingers up there, getting yourself wide open, thinking about nothing but how you can’t wait to be spitted on his fat prick. ... Yeah, see how fast you open up? You’re made for this. He’d have you a dozen times a day if he could. Before and after every meal, yeah? Keep you to hand, like his spoon. Your legs wet with his spend. Pretty face all red.” John presses two fingers into Sherlock’s prostate and simultaneously gives the nipple chain a yank. Sherlock shrieks. His face is wet. “If I touch your cock just once you’ll come, won’t you. Oh, he’s going to love fucking you when you’ve just come, you know that? Little _fish_ wriggling about. ‘Please stop, sir, please, I’m so _terribly sensitive_ just now.’” John lisps that last; Sherlock will give him an earful about it later, but at the moment is capable of no more than a whispered “Please.” 

John takes the plea as his cue and slides home. “I should spank you,” he says, “oh — before I put you on the block. Make you — oh God — shine hot for the punters.”

Sherlock has arched up into John, legs wide. The bells jingle at each thrust. His hands are over his face now and tiny plaintive cries emerge from behind them. He’s going to come any second now, and yet he’s all Virgin Shame at His Defloration. The performance is magnificent —

You can draw a screen of melodrama over real feeling, to protect it. Sherlock, how old was he, in his dream of submission, finding this verse, telling himself a story of being debased and being cherished in his debasement, of being at liberty to feel everything he feels _so hard all the time_ and works _so hard_ to protect almost everywhere and always, except when he is with John ...

John’s heart turns over. “He’s a lucky buyer, all right. He’s me, he’s me, I’m going to keep you forever. Little love, little beauty, little whore,” he whispers, pulling Sherlock’s hands away from his face, kissing his cheek, his mouth, his neck, his shoulder at random, “never anybody but me, I’ll never let anybody else touch you, only me, only you for me, never let anybody but me have you, you’re mine, mine, mine — ” 

He doesn’t forget his promise to pull the clamps off when he comes.

Sherlock’s scream is going to leave him hoarse. There’s a spot of blood on his left nipple. John reaches between them and strokes his cock, one, two, and Sherlock in his full adult voice says “John — John — I — ” and groans, deep and long, coming and coming, his head thrown back, every surface of him that John can touch wet with sweat, with come, with tears. John collapses on top of him and they lie together, drifting, warm, filthy; beloved and lover; lover and beloved.

 

*  
Quite a lot later, cleaned up, nipples soothed, Sherlock comes suddenly alert. “Did you say ‘punters,’ John? _Punters,_ really? Well. So the tides of the Thames,” he declaims, “were mingled with the floodwaters of the ancient Nile.”

“Just be glad I know so many dirty words in English,” John replies.

**Author's Note:**

> This might be thought of as taking place in the same universe as my ["John Watson Excels at the Non-culinary Arts"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2028342) and ["To the Victor Belong the Spoils"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3325535) \-- it's a fundamentally happy story, though I wasn't going for comedy this time. 
> 
> Obligatory does-this-really-need-saying disclaimers: buying and selling real people for nonconsensual sex is wrong, sex workers deserve our respect and legal protection, rape fantasy is A-okay but rape is wrong, and sex with people the age Sherlock implicitly was when he discovered Ezekiel's rant is also wrong, unless maybe you're the same age, but even then you're probably a bit too young and inexperienced to be playing this kind of scene.


End file.
